Ghostwriter (25 page)
The question wasn’t whether he was losing his mind.
He was losing his patience. And on the driveway, in the middle of the night, having just stepped over the cat his daughter
had given him that now missed its head, holding a bloody hatchet in his hand, Dennis started to scream.
“Where are you? Show your face if you’re brave enough! Show yourself. You coward! You weakling! Why don’t you try to do that
to me? Huh? You pitiful little ant! Come show your face! Step up and face me.”
But Dennis found himself screaming at the air, at the enveloping night, at the shadows on the driveway, at nobody. His voice
was hoarse and his head spun and he knelt down on the driveway and bent over.
He didn’t know what to do.
He didn’t know what the ghost wanted.
And he was afraid that time was going to run out before he found out.
—Go ahead, open it.
—I’m afraid.
—Why?
—Ever since you got me the car, I’m afraid of what you’ll get me next.
—Just go ahead, Lucy. Open it.
—Okay, fine.
—Be careful.
—What is it?
—Keep opening.
—Oh. Wow.
—That’s what heaven is to me. That picture. I found it and I just—I wanted to give it to you.
—It’s beautiful. Look at them. They look like they’re just passing the time away.
—They’re in Venice. I bet they’re both ninety years old.
—Thank you.
—Look at the back. Turn it around. I gave the piece a name.
—“Us and Them.”
—Yep. Us and the rest of the godforsaken world. That’s heaven. That’s my wish.
—Thank you, Dennis. It means… I can’t tell you…
—You don’t have to. You never have to because I know. I’ll always know.
Dennis woke up.
His forehead and cheeks and neck and chest were coated with sweat.
He reached over, hoping he would find her there, that this whole dreaded, horrible thing would be just a dream. But there
was nothing but space and emptiness next to him.
He swallowed, and his throat felt dry.
The memories won’t go away, and they never will.
He remembered giving her the color photograph a few months before she passed. It had been a special gift and a special moment.
Why couldn’t I have more of those?
He had blocked out the picture and that memory just like he had blocked out so many other memories. He was good at blocking
things out, at compartmentalizing. But when your life was falling apart, things got messy.
He could see her smile so vividly even in the darkness. He could hear her voice so clearly.
God, I miss you so much.
He thought of the picture and remembered what happened to it. The memory stung as he tried to let it go. But it had nowhere
to go, so it stayed at his side.
And sleep wouldn’t come for a long time.
Bob sees the yellow sports car parked with the top down. He can’t see the driver’s face but notices that he hasn’t moved for
some time. The trees hide him as he moves toward the lone car in the dark parking lot, the river bleeding out in front of
them, the moon peeking through clumps of clouds.
The metal pipe in his hands is all he found in his truck. It will do the trick. It can dent the hood of a semitruck, and he
knows because he has done it. A soft, fleshy head and a pliable skull will be no match.
Bob steps onto the pavement, his feet silent, his form barely noticeable in the murky shadows.
He will have to dispose of the sports car as well.
The river ahead provides a possibility, but he doubts that will work.
His hand tightens around the pipe as he approaches.
It will be quick, probably only four or five blows.
A gust of wind slides by.
And then suddenly he hears footsteps.
Numerous footsteps.
They’re not ordinary steps. The clicking sound is different, the pace hurried and frantic.
They’re approaching him.
He turns and sees only glowing eyes.
The beasts slam against him and he falls, dropping the pipe, his cheek and jaw pounding off the pavement. Something tramples
over his back, his hand, his head, something heavy and wild. He looks up as some beast pounds against him, sending him falling
back again.
In darkness with his eyes closed, he grasps for the pipe and finds it, lashing out. But it doesn’t hit anything.
Bob gets to his knees and looks toward the outline of the sports car. Several long-legged animals stand between him and the
vehicle.
As if they’re protecting it.
He licks his lip and tastes his own blood. For a moment he considers attacking them, breaking their pretty heads, filling
the car with their limbs.
Then he stands and sees the pack, knows it’s too much. He turns around and walks back into the woods.
Dennis hadn’t done something like this in years.
It didn’t matter that it was October and not, say, May. The temperature was in the seventies. It would probably be in the
fifties and stormy by the time Halloween rolled around—it always was. He sat in Lucy’s yellow Porsche Boxster with the top
down, his fourth beer in his hand, looking out at the river sliding by, the music turned up loud.
He could remember the spring of ’77, a sophomore in college hanging out with his friends at University of Illinois in Champaign
at some forest preserve, drinking beer and smoking weed and listening to this album. He hadn’t listened to Animals all the
way through for years, and he found himself appreciating it even more now than he had back then.
Back then when I didn’t realize how sacred and special and swift life could be.
He’d experimented with his share of drugs in the old days. He could remember taking acid the first time he went to see the
Floyd, how it changed his life. He didn’t really remember that much of the show, but he could still remember how alive he
felt. How the music seemed to be playing inside of him, how the lights and the sounds all vibrated and bubbled over and made
him feel like an astronaut and an explorer and a conqueror even though he was still a pimply faced, long-haired college student.
Now Dennis listened to music and drank and tried to wash away the burn of the memories.
This was where he proposed to Lucy.
This tranquil location set off next to the river, surrounded by large trees and now a park and a garden and even a small atrium.
Back then it had been more simple. You could park and walk through the forest and look at the river. He hadn’t wanted something
grand or ornate. He wanted a peaceful place where Lucy could be herself and he could surprise her with the ring.
And it had worked perfectly.
Twenty-five years ago.
He needed a lot more beer to drink to that. To drink the memories away.
He shouldn’t be here, separated, isolated. She should be here with him. Or she should be here instead of him.
It’s always the same. Always the same.
He hated reminiscing because the same old thoughts always filled him. She should be here and he should’ve been the first to
go and cliché after cliché.
The reality was that life happened and life sometimes sucked and life couldn’t be avoided.
He drained the rest of his beer and turned up the music, but it didn’t help.
Do you see me, Lucy? What would you say? Get on up. Get going. Stop sludging around.
But Dennis knew he had done the best he could during the last year, getting up and getting going. He’d done it so well that
it had brought him here.
I’ve tried and I’ve done everything but I can’t erase the memory of us.
Nor did he want to. She would be with him forever, and he wanted it that way. Take away any other memories of childhood or
college craziness, but don’t take away the family memories. Not Lucy and Audrey.
The music pulsing through his car sounded eerie, otherworldly.
What would his life be like if it had a Beatles sound track? A little more peaceful and sweet? How about The Rolling Stones?
A little more demonic? The Doors? A little more psychotic?
I don’t know if I could get any more psychotic, thank you very much.
He pictured the look in Lucy’s eyes when he proposed, when he opened his hand and showed her the ring. She didn’t care that
it wasn’t big. She cared that he was asking, that he was on one knee asking, that he said he loved her and always would, that
he was inviting her to be a part of his journey.
She didn’t hesitate but said yes yes yes yes over and over again.
Dennis shut his eyes and listened to the music and drank his beer and remembered.
He remembered her smell, her touch, her skin, her hair, her voice, her walk, her every little thing.
And with a smile on his face, he drifted off into his own happily ever after.
The knocking sounded from miles away. Gentle, but persistent.
Dennis wiped his eyes and could barely make out the river through the trees, the glow of the moon reflecting off the steadily
moving water.
The empty beer in his hand had dropped on the fl oor. The CD had stopped playing. And no one was around.
But then he heard a shuffling. He turned and jumped, seeing the big shadow in the darkness.
Then another.
He turned toward his left and saw another.
Deer. A bunch of deer are hanging out just watching me in the darkness.
Dennis turned slowly, quietly. The deer were full-sized, the kind that could do major damage to a car. He had never seen deer
this close up.
They stood almost as if…
That’s crazy, Dennis.
But he had seen far crazier things. They just stood there in the darkness like guards standing over a castle, their long,
lean bodies serving as a wall.
One of the deer looked straight at him, and he squinted to see its beautiful strong face in the shadows.
I heard knocking. Pounding. What was that?
Dennis put a hand on the side of the car. The deer slowly moved away, not frightened like he thought they might be. One by
one—there were four of them—they headed back into the woods.
All except the one that had stared into Dennis’s eyes.
It was a surreal experience, being here in the dark, feeling spooked, but also feeling completely at ease because of this
remarkable creature.
Can I see its eyes, or am I just imagining it?
But he thought he could. And he thought…
I’m thinking a lot of things and most of them are crazy.
The deer turned and walked back into the woods to join its companions.
And with that Dennis started up the car and drove off.
The voices won’t go away. Not just Cillian’s, but all of them. They confuse and contradict and make him want to go out and
cut.
Bob knows he shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t do this. There are certain ways of doing it, certain rules he always goes by.
But there are no more rules. Not anymore. Not when the dead show up to haunt him.
He scans the area and doesn’t see anyone. It’s empty. Grocery stores usually are around midnight. But that doesn’t mean guys
who would rather be smoking pot and listening to rock and watching television aren’t working, doing the cleanup shift.
He passes the display of apples and the barrel full of pumpkins to go through the swinging doors. There is a small hallway
lined with bags of potatoes and boxes of bananas. The floor looks freshly swept. He turns a corner and sees the back area
where several sinks and tables are used to cut fruit. The knife on the counter is large enough to slice a cow. He takes it
and continues walking through another set of doors into a freezer.
Bob doesn’t hear any voices now. Cillian’s voice is gone, but he knows it’s just temporary. He wishes he could kill him again,
that he could make him shut up permanently.
He wants all the voices to go away.
The spiky-haired kid is loading a box of oranges onto a cart. He glances up and doesn’t appear surprised.
“What’s up?”
Bob approaches him, the knife at his side. The guy doesn’t see it.
“Lookin’ for someone?” the guy asks casually, hauling another box onto the cart.
Before he can say something else, the knife makes sure he won’t be talking anymore, or at least makes sure he won’t be saying
anything decipherable. The gash in his cheeks and lips is deep.
The young man grabs his mouth a second before he starts to howl, and the knife finds its way to his apron, then works its
way upward. Bob grabs the kid’s mouth and presses down hard and feels the blood and hears the screams.
It’s over in moments. He stands there, surveying the mess.
His skin tingles as his body shudders, his eyes rolling back for a moment. Everything in him tightens, then he lets out a
long, shaky breath and opens his eyes.
He stares at the boxes. He knows he doesn’t have much time.
He’ll need to clean this up.
Nobody will suspect anything happened. Not to this kid. They’ll think he simply took off.
Nobody will check this dirty cooler he will mop. Or the boxes he will take to his truck.
Nobody will know.
And for now, the voices remain silent.
He was awakened by the sound of digging.
Dennis had gone to sleep with the bedroom window open. At first he thought he was dreaming the rhythmic noise. But as it continued
and the sound of metal striking rock sent echoes into the quiet night, Dennis knew he wasn’t dreaming.
It was 2:24 a.m.
He threw on some clothes and didn’t bother bringing anything outside with him. It probably wouldn’t matter anyway.
On the deck the wood beneath him groaned as he approached the noise. It came from down by the river, past the oak and the
river birch trees.
Dennis slowed as he approached the source of the sound.